Whitewashed: my identity erased

Photo by Ozan Çulha at Pexels

Rebecca Pattni reflects on the consequence of being reduced to a stereotype

Three times in the past few weeks I’ve been called whitewashed, in seemingly casual conversations. As a second-generation immigrant, a mixed Asian British girl, I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut. This term (whitewashed) I’d heard before, but never thought it applied to me.

As defined by the Oxford English dictionary, ‘whitewashing’ is ‘to distort, to exclude non-white people, to eschew or erase the representation or depiction of non-white people in (history); to represent (a non-white person) as white.’ No shit!

So essentially, the term erases the identity of non-white people when they don’t fit into categories that others have decided for them.

In my first term at uni, meeting lots of new people, one of the first things I’m asked is “where do you come from?”. It’s usually because people can’t handle their curiosity about my background, since I look kind of ‘racially ambiguous’. Though I’m happy to explain that my dad is Indian and my mum is British, I can’t help but feel I’m being jammed in a box, where the only categories are brown, white or mixed. I can never simply be just me.

One exchange in particular stayed with me. After explaining, that I’m half Indian (mum British, dad Asian), I was instantly hit with follow-up questions, “have you ever lived there?”, “have you ever visited?” I answered “no” to both, feeling that familiar squeeze of being reduced to someone else’s idea of what ‘counts’.

I’m rarely confronted with racism or microaggressions. But this was different.

Then, out of nowhere, this person shouted “WHITEWASHED!” – twice. The rest of the room carried on without a blink, as if they hadn’t even heard it. It was like they simply didn’t realise the impact of that word, the one that had just punched me in the gut and erased me completely as a person, reducing me to a stereotype!

With my head spinning, I made an excuse and left the room. Although I was initially confused and shaken, I knew I didn’t feel right about what had just been said. As the words lingered I remembered an article I wrote with Exposure about white-passing, something I feel as though I am. I’m rarely confronted with racism or microaggressions but this was different. This felt like my first experience of direct racism, and it left me struggling with feelings burning inside me.

I couldn’t help but obsess about how I’m seen. I feel like I’m considered white and, in looking at me, people just write off my Indian heritage. So with that single word, whitewashed, echoing, I felt like all my worst fears were being confirmed.

Whitewashed. A word that brings up a profound sense of my identity being erased.

I realise that I’m acutely aware of the way others perceive me. So, when this person decided where I belong, or don’t belong, all the comments I’d ever heard about my identity swarmed my mind. I didn’t think I had the right to feel upset, because I’ve always been a mixture of things. I’ve been told I look white, or that I don’t look Indian, and at other times, people say I look Iranian, Spanish, Greek, Italian, Middle Eastern, Israeli, Albanian or Turkish and so it goes on.

All this confusion surrounding my appearance has left me feeling powerless, with my identity constantly commented on and decided by others. Hearing that word brought up such a profound sense of being erased – not just one part of me, but all of me! In an instant, one word wiped out my heritage and my father’s trauma as a first-generation immigrant exiled from Uganda.

This sense of powerlessness over identity is touched upon in Akala’s book Natives: Race & Class in the Ruins of Empire. He writes, “I was not born with an opinion of the world, but it clearly seemed that the world had an opinion of people like me.” This has led me to reconsider my own identity, as I am not one or the other. I am not more one than the other. I am both, at the same time. Or, to put it more plainly, in the way I saw myself when I was much younger, and my race was not a topic of discussion: I am me!

Racism exists on a spectrum, and being of mixed heritage brings its challenges. My battle is fighting others’ perceptions of who I am. Even though this experience of racism has been upsetting, I now see myself simply as me – not defined by what others decide.